


Midnight Snack

by VoidVesper



Category: X-Men (Movieverse)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-02
Updated: 2019-01-02
Packaged: 2019-10-02 22:39:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17272502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VoidVesper/pseuds/VoidVesper
Summary: The smutty alternate ending to that late night kitchen scene between Logan and Bobby in the first X-Men movie.





	Midnight Snack

In another reality, it's just a late night at Xavier's. Kids asleep, security system silently humming. There's no army of goons outside. Just Bobby, unable to sleep. 

He's been staring at the ceiling for over an hour now. Funny how you can't just will yourself to sleep. The mind's got to turn off, become susceptible to the seduction of the beta waves. It's like willing an erection. Like he's got any trouble there, too. You try dating a girl you can't touch. See how long you last. See how well you can sleep. 

Someone's up –he can hear the TV downstairs, see the cathode ray flicker lighting the staircase. His room's only a few feet from the grand balustrade. Isn't there ice cream in the fridge? The night air doesn't bother him, but he pulls on a t-shirt for modesty's sake. He'll never admit it, but he's still shy about his body. Too young, he thinks. Too skinny. No hair, except for a rough little happy trail of blonde ants down the flat below his navel. At least his shoulders are broadening, he thinks. He's seen the change in the past year. He's lost his puppy fat. After doing the compulsory training for a year, he's no gymnast, but he's getting there. He can feel the knot of his tricep when he tightens his arm, can see the tendons twitch in his forearm like the inner workings of a piano when he wiggles his fingers. It's harder to lay his hand flat on his shoulder, the lump of his biceps gets in the way. He can run faster and jump higher than he did a year ago –how much of that is the training and how much is his growth spurt he'll never know. Still, seeing Peter in the locker room after Danger Room practice - that can give a guy a complex. He checks the front of his boxers –no escapees –and heads downstairs. 

That strange kid is still up, flicking his TK at the TV. Bobby pays him no mind and heads into the kitchen, snapping on the light. It feels good to stick his hand in the fridge. It's not like he sweats everywhere he goes, but cold is a balm to him –the prick of icy air feels like a cashmere scarf and sets his neurons a-firing. He cups his hot palms around the pint of ice cream for a minute and savors the chill. The first spoonful on his tongue is even better. To feel that ice going down his throat and radiating through his core is utterly satisfying. And it's French vanilla, too –yum. He takes another mouthful and raises the carton to the nape of his neck. The chill goes right down to his balls. 

He's about to take another mouthful when he realizes Logan is standing in the door frame. Jesus Christ, that guy is good on sneaking up on you. It must be awfully hard to creep up on someone in cowboy boots. 

"Hey", says Bobby. 

"Hey", Logan says. His voice is a rumble. His eyes make quick flits to the four corners of the room, like a cat checking the all-clear before stepping over the threshold. "Doesn't anyone sleep around here?" 

"Not tonight. " 

"Got anything to drink?" 

"This is a school. "He points to the upper cupboard. Logan reaches in and takes out a warm longneck soda. Bobby can see the distaste wrinkle his lip for a second.  
Logan ponders for a moment, then hands Bobby the bottle. He knows just what to do.  
One breath from him animates the soda. He feels it grow frosty in his hands. He hands it back to Logan, locking eyes. Bobby thought his eyes were an appropriate ice blue but he can see Logan 's are an arctic color unforeseen, and the intensity of their gaze is known probably only also by small defenseless mammals, right before doom is upon them. He swallows hard and tries not to show it. He wasn't scared when he first met Logan, just the usual meeting-the-folks nervousness. But here, in the kitchen, the whole world dark outside . . . it is unsettling. 

Logan's a killer. Bobby knows this. Wrapped inside the sinew of his arms are blades that have tasted blood many times. All it takes is a flick of a neuron and death shoots out of Logan's knuckles with frightening, unflinching speed. Bobby can't stop staring at those knuckles as Logan reaches for the soda. It's like having a gun muzzle in your face. It's like taking lunch from the jaws of a Doberman.  
Bobby can 't stop thinking this, and yet, twisted up in this morbid fascination is something else, something alien and unsettling but seductive, a little twisted notion screwing deep into the reptile part of his brain. He can't put a finger on it. But his eyes follow Logan's hand –Jesus, he's got big hands –up his wrists, up his scarless arms, as he drinks deep from the bottle and settles himself on the stool with panther-like efficiency. That must be what it is. He moves –fluidly. Effortlessly. Every muscle pulling its share. He is no brain in a jar. He's physical.

This realization stirred something deep in him. He adored Marie –she was sweet, and pretty, and full of Southern gentility that he found totally enchanting –but one thing she is not, is physical. Not just that he couldn't kiss her or touch her or anything (as if that wasn't making him crazy enough) but there was nothing about her that preferred silk over wool . . . or the cleansing properties of a long jog . . . or even the icy delight of a swallow of French vanilla ice cream. It was as if she had rejected every sensual delight her skin could offer. She had left her body alone inside its numbed shell and settled for a bloodless existence, a platonic relationship with everything the physical world could offer. 

And how could he explain that to her? How could he articulate what it's like to be a young man, to have a body that demands you to move and fuck and jump and fight, now, now, NOW? How could she ever understand the perineum-to-crown rush of reaching out into the air and making the molecules of water vapor vibrate with delight, tremor themselves into crystalline mandalas, millions upon millions of specks of vapor locked in tantric embrace? For her, a mutation was a layer of gauze between her and the physical world. For him, it was the extension of his sensual self into infinity. 

And here he was, alone in the kitchen with a man who was nothing but nerve and impulse and fast and slow twitch muscle. And it was intoxicating. It was making French vanilla ice cream uninteresting by comparison. 

"So you and Rogue, huh?" Logan must have been reading his thoughts. 

"Yeah. It's hard to get close to someone you want so badly." 

Logan's intense gaze hardened slightly. 

"I mean, look at you and Jean Grey." 

"Excuse me?" Logan put his drink down. Bobby felt a rush of naughty delight. He had hit a nerve. He had intended to. Logan wanted Jean - badly. Anyone could see that. Probably making him as crazy with blind frustration as Bobby was right about now over Marie. 

"Must be pretty frustrating." Slide it home. 

In one lightning move Logan stepped over to deep inside Bobby's personal space. Bobby gulped hard. Standing over him, a full two heads taller than him, was not a relaxing place to be the subject of Wolverine's gaze. He was close enough to smell him –aftershave and sweat and cigar smoke and leather and the clean laundry scent of his white tank top. His hot breath rained down on him. I 'm sure he can smell me too, he thought. 

"Listen . . . boy," Logan began, his words tight with menace, "if you got speculations about me and Jean . . . keep them to yourself." Bobby was close enough to feel the heat coming off his chest. A warm ache was growing deep in his belly and moving south. Who would have thought? An average white boy, who likes sweet Southern Belles, was actually getting hot over this man-animal ready to skin him alive? The deep pleasurable ache in his pants swept away any doubt. I deserve this, he thought. I've had blue balls over Marie for who knows how long. At this point, I don't care. I'm young, dumb and full of cum. I don't care if I die in the process, I just want to get fucked and I 'm not feeling picky anymore. 

As this thought rose up an intense calm invaded his mind. Total surrender. His skin tingled and he could feel his erection heading skyward inside the waistband of his boxers. God, even the elastic felt good rubbing against the tender spot on the underside. He looked up with supernatural calm at Logan's glare. Locking eyes with him, he reached out slowly to the crotch of Logan's jeans and dragged his fingers, front to back, pressing his palm against the denim around his balls. 

"I think I understand," he said. 

You could see the confusion flit across Logan's face for a moment, only to soften and his lip tremble and his nostrils flare. Bobby felt Logan's dick jump under the zipper of his jeans. It must feel good. Did it really matter that he was the one doing it? He tiptoed his fingers up to the western-style buckle on Logan's belt and started creeping around the edge to find the mechanism that held it together. Bobby looked up into Logan's eyes. They were almost half-closed and rolling up towards the back of his head when they suddenly snapped open and locked with his. 

"No. " 

Logan's hand clapped around Bobby's wrist and tore it away from his belt. In a flash Bobby's hand was behind his back and oh my God, did it hurt. Logan smashed him into the kitchen table, bent over at the waist, his stomach flat on the table surface. Logan behind him, pinning him down. That unforgettable sickening SNIKT of metal on bone and Bobby was looking at three cold blades in his face. 

"I don't play that, bub. You got that? " 

"Ow. OW! I 'm sorry! Hey, stop, stop. Stop. Please listen to me. Please. " 

Logan, amazingly, stopped. Breathing hard, in the silence, he let Bobby talk. 

"Look, ok. I 'm horny as hell. I can't even hold my girlfriend's hand. I've been going crazy for about a year. I know you have been too. I know you want Jean so bad it makes your bones ache. Believe me –"he was practically crying now –"I know how it feels. " 

Logan was silent. 

"Tell me why I shouldn't just kill you now. " he said. 

"Because I know you want it too. " 

Silence. 

"Look . . . I promise. "He wiggled free and turned to face Logan, his back on the kitchen table. He stared into those cold wolf eyes. 

"No one will ever know." 

Logan stared at him, for much too long to be comfortable. 

Then he let Bobby go. Bobby took a deep breath and raised himself up on his elbows, back still on the kitchen table. 

Then Logan crossed the room and walked out the door. 

Bobby lay there on the table. The pint of ice cream was still on the counter, metal spoon melting an indentation. The kid was still watching TV in the other room. The channels flicked by in rapid succession. 

Bobby heard Wolverine's voice speak, low and inaudible. The TV flicked off. He heard the stomp stomp stomp of a kid's footsteps going up the stairs. A door upstairs slammed.  
Then footsteps, long and solid, heading back to the kitchen. 

Logan appeared in the kitchen doorway. Bobby stared at him. 

Logan flicked off the light. 

In the instant before his eyes adjusted Bobby was set upon by an animal force. It grabbed him and forced his back to the table, big hands fumbling under his shirt. Bobby smelled musk, smoke, heard the panting growl in his ear. 

"Flip over," it said. 

Before he could obey hands grabbed his slender hips and wrestled him onto his stomach, yanking his boxers to his ankles. Big biceps wrapped around his neck in a chokehold, pinning him to the table. Flesh and fur all over his back, his neck, his bare ass. He heard a zipper. 

And then, oh my god, yes, no, oh shit what have I gotten myself into, he could feel the deep pressure of Logan's cock sliding in the crack of his ass, pre-cum wet on the tip, and just as he was having some serious second thoughts about this Logan pushed inside him and he was totally consumed by utter searing ripping pain, a sensation that shot out of the top of his skull. He squirmed and tried to get free but there was no way, Logan had him seriously pinned and grabbed him by the shoulders and Bobby could feel his ass up against Logan 's hard hips and Logan was fucking him now, hard and MUCH TOO BIG cock reaming out his insides, too deep, too fast, too hard. The first crack of pain was subsiding but the strange wrongness of the sensation persisted . . . and then something novel, a deep satisfying ache, oooh, yes, something sweet, a-ha! Bobby's once dead hard-on was making reappearance at this new, thick, taffy-pull drag. He raised his hips up a little to meet him and - 

"Ohhhhhh . . . Bobby moaned. 

Logan clamped a hand over his mouth. "Shhh . . ."he hissed. 

Bobby's tongue sought out Logan's thumb and gave it a long slow suck. 

Oh my God, yes, now it was fine, now it was utterly deep and sweet and ohhhhhh . . . Bobby wondered if he could ever talk Marie into doing this to him. If she had a strap-on, she wouldn't have to touch him. His cock was bumping against the lower edge of the table now. He spit into his hand and wrapped his palm around the burning head. Waves of indescribable bliss swept over him. More –and more- and - 

ohh 

ohhhhhh 

 

Sticky cum dripped from between his fingers and splattered on the tile on the kitchen floor. He was in such an opiated daze he didn't feel Logan getting harder and harder but he felt the last two thrusts and in a jellied haze he felt the splurt inside his ass and the sudden cold vacancy and heavy warm feeling somewhere up by his prostate. 

"Clean this up, "he thought he heard someone far away say, and then the lights flicked back on and he saw Logan 's back, exiting the room, buttoning up his fly. Footstomps up the stairs and silence again. 

Bobby looked around. He was naked. His boxers were around one ankle. Three chairs were knocked over. His ass was delightfully sore. And, looking like the streak of cum making its way down to the inside of his knee, was French vanilla ice cream, melted and all over the floor.


End file.
